FROM DISTANT LANDS.
More than a year had passed away since the events recorded in the last
chapter. Early autumn was beginning to touch the leaves with gold and
crimson; the later flowers were coming into bloom, and the fruit hung
purple and russet-red upon the boughs. The woods about Beaminster had
put on a gorgeous mantle, and the gardens were gay with color, and yet
over all there hung the indefinable brooding melancholy that comes of
the first touch of decay. It was of this that Janetta Colwyn was chiefly
conscious, as she walked in the Red House grounds and looked at the
yellowing leaves that eddied through the still air to the gravelled
walks and unshorn lawns below. Janetta was thinner and paler than in
days of yore, and yet there was a peaceful expression upon her face
which gave it an added charm. She had discarded her black gowns and wore
a pretty dark red dress which suited her admirably. There was a look of
thought and feeling in her dark eyes, a sweetness in her smile, which
would always redeem her appearance from the old charge of insignificance
that used to be brought against it. Small and slight she might be, but
never a woman to be overlooked.
The past few months had seen several changes in her family. Mrs. Colwyn
was now Mrs. Burroughs, and filled her place with more dignity than had
been expected. She was kept in strict order by her husband and his
sister, and, like many weak persons, was all the better and happier for
feeling a strong hand over her. The children had accommodated themselves
very well to the new life, and were very fond of their stepfather. Nora
and Cuthbert had quitted the Red House almost immediately after their
marriage, and gone to Paris, whence Nora wrote glowing accounts to her
sister of the happiness of her life. And Janetta had taken up her abode
at the Red House, nominally as governess to little Julian, and companion
to Mrs. Brand, but practically ruler of the household, adviser-in-chief
to every one on the estate; teacher, comforter, and confidante in turn,
or all at once. She could not remain long in any place without winning
trust and affection, and there was not a servant in Wyvis Brand's employ
who did not soon learn that the best way of gaining help in need or
redress for any grievance was to address himself or herself to little
Miss Colwyn. To Mrs. Brand, now more weak and ailing than ever, Janetta
was like a daughter. And secure in her love, little Julian never knew
what it was to miss a mother's care.
Janetta might have her own private cares and worries, but in public, at
any rate, she was seldom anything but cheerful. It was a duty that she
owed the world, she thought, to look bright in it, and especially a duty
to Mrs. Brand and little Julian, who would sorely have missed her ready
playfulness and her tender little jokes if ever she had forgotten
herself so far as to put on a gloomy countenance. And yet she sometimes
felt very much dispirited. She had no prospects of prosperity; she could
not expect to live at the Red House for ever; and yet, when Wyvis came
home and she had to go--which, of course, must happen some time, since
Mrs. Brand was growing old and infirm, and Julian would have to go to
school--what would she do? She asked herself this question many times,
and could never find a very satisfactory answer. She might advertise for
a situation: she might take lodgings in London, and give lessons: she
might go to the house of her stepfather. Each of these attempts to solve
the problem of her future gave her a cold shudder and a sudden sickness
of heart. And yet, as she often severely told herself, what else was
there for her to do?
She had heard nothing of the Adairs, save through common town gossip,
for many months. The house was shut up, and they were still travelling
abroad. Margaret had evidently quite given up her old friend, Janetta,
and this desertion made Janetta's heart a little sore. Wyvis also was in
foreign lands. He had been to many places, and killed a great many wild
beasts--so much all the world knew, and few people knew anything more.
To his mother he wrote seldom, though kindly. An occasional note to
Julian, or a post card to Cuthbert or his agent, would give a new
address from time to time, but it was to Janetta only that he sometimes
wrote a really long and interesting epistle, detailing some of his
adventures in the friendly and intimate way which his acquaintance with
her seemed to warrant. He did not mention any of his private affairs: he
never spoke of that painful last scene at the Red House, of Margaret, of
his mother, of his wife; but he wrote of the scenes through which he
passed, and the persons whom he met, with an unreserve which Janetta
knew to be the sincerest compliment.
But on this autumnal day she had received a letter in which another note
was struck. And it was for this reason that she had brought it out into
the garden, so that she might think over it, and read it again in the
shadow of the great beech trees, away from the anxious eyes of Mrs.
Brand and the eager childish questions of Wyvis' boy.
For three pages Wyvis had written in his usual strain. He was not
perhaps an ideally good letter-writer, but he had a terse, forcible
style of his own, and could describe a scene with some amount of graphic
power. In the midst of an account of certain brigands with whom he had
met in Sicily, however, he had, in this letter, broken off quite
suddenly and struck into a new subject in a new and unexpected way.
"I had written thus far when I was interrupted: the date of the letter,
you will see, is three weeks ago. I put down my pen and went out: I
found that fever had made its appearance, so I packed up my traps that
afternoon and started for Norway. A sudden change, you will say? Heaven
knows why I went there, but I am glad I did.
"It was early in July when I reached the hotel at V----. There was
_table d'hote_ and many another sign of civilization, which bored me not
a little. However, I made the best of a bad job, and went down to dinner
with the rest, took my seat without noticing my companions until I was
seated, and then found myself next to--can you guess who, Janetta?--I am
sure you never will.
"_Lady Caroline Adair!!!_
"Her daughter was just beyond her, and Mr. Adair beyond the daughter, so
the fair Margaret was well guarded. Of course I betrayed no sign of
recognition, but I wished myself at Jericho very heartily. For, between
ourselves, Janetta, I made such an ass of myself last summer that my
ears burn to think of it, and it was not a particularly honorable or
gentlemanly ass, I believe, so that I deserve to be drowned in the deep
sea for my folly. I can only hope that I did not show what I felt.
"Miss Adair was blooming: fair, serene, self-possessed as ever. _She_
did not show any sign of embarrassment, I can tell you. She did not even
blush. She looked at me once or twice with the faint, well-bred
indifference with which the well-brought-up young lady usually eyes a
perfect stranger. It was Mr. Adair who did all the embarrassment for us.
He turned purple when he saw me, and wanted his daughter to come away
from the table. My ears are quick, and I heard what he said to her, and
I heard also her reply. 'Why should I go away, dear papa! I don't mind
in the least.' Kind of her not to mind, wasn't it? And do you think I
was going to 'mind,' after that? I lifted up my head, which I had
hitherto bent studiously over my soup, and began to talk to my neighbor
on the other side, a stalwart English clergyman with a blue ribbon at
his button-hole.
"But presently, to my surprise, Lady Caroline addressed me. 'I hope you
have not forgotten me, Mr. Brand,' she said, quite graciously. I must
confess, Janetta, that I stared at her. The calm audacity of the woman
took me by surprise. She looked as amiable as if we were close friends
meeting after a long absence. I hope you won't be very angry with me
when I tell you how I answered her. 'Pardon me,' I said, 'my name is
Wyvis--not Brand.' And then I went on talking to my muscular Christian
on the left.
"She looked just a little bit disconcerted. Not much, you know. It would
take a great deal to disconcert Lady Caroline very much. But she did not
try to talk to me again! I choked her off that time, anyhow.
"And, now, let me make a confession. I don't admire Margaret Adair in
the very least. I did, I know: and I made a fool of myself, and worse,
perhaps, about her: but she does, not move one fibre of my heart now,
she does not make it beat a bit faster, and she does not give my eye
more pleasure than a wax doll would give me. She is fair and sweet and
tranquil, I know: but what has she done with her heart and her brain? I
suppose her mother has them in her keeping, and will make them over to
her husband when she marries?... I know a woman who is worth a dozen
Margarets....
"But I have made up my mind to live single, so long as Julian's mother
is alive. Legally, I am not bound; morally, I can scarcely feel myself
free. And I know that you feel with me, Janet. The world may call us
over-scrupulous; but I set your judgment higher than that of the world.
And all I can say about Margaret is that I fell into a passing fit of
madness, and cared for nothing but what my fancy dictated; and that now
I am sane--clothed in my right mind, so to speak--I am disgusted with
myself for my folly. Lady Caroline and her daughter should have taken
higher ground. They were right to send me away--but not right to act on
unworthy motives. In the long nights that I have spent camping out under
the quiet stars, far away from the dwellings of men, I have argued the
thing out with myself, and I say unreservedly that they were right and
I was wrong--wrong from beginning to end, wrong to my mother, wrong to
my wife (as she once was), wrong to Margaret, wrong to myself. Your
influence has always been on the side of right and truth, Janetta, and
you more than once told me that I was wrong.
"So I make my confession. I do not think that I shall come back to
England just yet. I am going to America next week. You will not leave
the Red House, will you? While you are there I can feel at ease about my
mother and my boy. I trust you with them entirely, Janetta; and I want
you to trust me. Wherever I may go, and whatever I may do, I will
henceforward be worthy of your trust and of your friendship."
This was the letter that Janetta read under the beech trees; and as she
read it tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon the pages. But they
were not tears of sadness--rather tears of joy and thankfulness. For
Wyvis Brand's aberration of mind--so it had always appeared to her--had
given her much pain and sorrow. And he seemed now to have placed his
foot upon the road to better things.
She was still holding the letter in her hand when she reached the end of
the beech-tree shaded walk along which she had been slowly walking. The
tears were wet upon her cheeks, but a smile played on her lips. She did
not notice for some time that she was watched from the gate that led
into the pasture-land, at the end of the beech-tree walk, by a woman,
who seemed uncertain whether to speak, to enter, or to go away.
Janetta saw her at last, and wondered what she was doing there. She put
the letter into her pocket, dashed the tears from her eyes, and advanced
towards the gate.
"Can I do anything for you?" she said.
The woman looked about thirty-five years old, and possessed the remains
of great beauty. She was haggard and worn: her cheeks were sunken,
though brilliantly red, and her large, velvety-brown eyes were strangely
bright. Her dark, waving hair had probably once been curled over her
brow: it now hung almost straight, and had a rough, dishevelled look,
which corresponded with the soiled and untidy appearance of her dress.
Her gown and mantle were of rich stuff, but torn and stained in many
places; and her gloves and boots were shabby to the very last degree,
while her bonnet, of cheap and tawdry materials, had at any rate the
one merit of being fresh and new. Altogether she was an odd figure to be
seen in a country place; and Janetta wondered greatly whence she came,
and what her errand was at the Red House.
"Can I do anything for you?" she asked.
"This is the Red House, I suppose?" the woman asked, hoarsely.
"Yes, it is."
"Wyvis Brand's house?"
Janetta hesitated in surprise, and then said, "Yes," in a rather distant
tone.
"Who are _you_?" said the woman, looking at her sharply.
"I am governess to Mr. Brand's little boy."
"Oh, indeed. And he's at home, I suppose?"
"No," said Janetta, gravely, "he has been away for more than a year, and
is now, I believe, on his way to America."
"You lie!" said the woman, furiously; "and you know that you lie!"
Janetta recoiled a step. Was this person mad?
"He is at home, and you want to keep me out," the woman went on, wildly.
"You don't want me to set foot in the place, or to see my child again!
He is at home, and I'll see him if I have to trample on your body
first."
"Nobody wants to keep you out," said Janetta, forcing herself to speak
and look calmly, but tingling with anger from head to foot. "But I
assure you Mr. Brand is away from home. His mother lives here; she is
not very strong, and ought not to be disturbed. If you will give me your
name----"
"My name?" repeated the other in a tone of mockery. "Oh yes, I'll give
you my name. I don't see why I should hide it; do you? I've been away a
good long time; but I mean to have my rights now. My name is Mrs. Wyvis
Brand: what do you think of that, young lady?"
She drew herself up as she spoke, looking gaunt and defiant. Her eyes
flamed and her cheeks grew hotter and deeper in tint until they were
poppy-red. She showed her teeth--short, square, white teeth--as if she
wanted to snarl like an angry dog. But Janetta, after the first moment
of repulsion and astonishment, was not dismayed.
"I did not know," she said, gravely, "that you had any right to call
yourself by that name. I thought that you were divorced from Mr. Wyvis
Brand."
"Separated for incompatibility of temper; that was all," said Mrs. Brand
coolly. "I told him I'd got a divorce, but it wasn't true. I wanted to
be free from him--that's the truth. I didn't mean him to marry again. I
heard that he was going to be married--is that so! Perhaps he was going
to marry _you_?"
"No," Janetta answered, very coldly.
"I'm not going to put up with it if he is," was her visitor's sullen
reply. "I've borne enough from him in my day, I can tell you. So I've
come for the boy. I'm going to have him back; and when I've got him I've
no doubt but what I can make Wyvis do what I choose. I hear he's fond of
the boy."
"But what--what--do you want him to do?" said Janetta, startled out of
her reserve. "Do you want--_money_ from him?"
Mrs. Wyvis Brand laughed hoarsely. Janetta noticed that her breath was
very short, and that she leaned against the gate-post for support.
"No, not precisely," she said. "I want more than that. I see that he's
got a nice, comfortable, respectable house; and I'm tired of wandering.
I'm ill, too, I believe. I want a place in which to be quiet and rest,
or die, as it may turn out. I mean Wyvis to take me back."
She opened the gate as she spoke, and tried to pass Janetta. But the
girl stood in her way.
"Take you back after you have left him and ill-treated him and deceived
him, you wicked woman!" she broke out, in her old impetuous way. And for
answer, Mrs. Wyvis Brand raised her hand and struck her sharply across
the face.
A shrill, childish cry rang out upon the air. Janetta stood mute and
trembling, unable for the moment to move or speak, as little Julian
suddenly flung himself into her arms and tried to drag her towards the
house.
"Oh, come away, come away, dear Janetta!" he cried. "It's mamma, and
she'll take me back to Paris, I know she will! I won't go away from you,
I won't, I won't!" His mother sprung towards him, as if to tear him from
Janetta's arm, and then her strength seemed suddenly to pass from her.
She stopped, turned ghastly white, and then as suddenly very red. Then
she flung up her arms with a gasping, gurgling cry, and, to Janetta's
horror, she saw a crimson tide break from her quivering lips. She was
just in time to catch her in her arms before she sank senseless to the
ground.